Dear Mavis, Are You Bloody Well Kidding Me?
by Abracadebra
Summary: What happens when Newkirk finds out that his sister has been writing letters to Colonel Hogan-and that the Guv has actually been writing back? Letters from an irritable British corporal happen, that's what. Many thanks for Prolegomenon aka Old English Game for inspiring this response with her very funny "To Colonel RE Hogan" story and to LE Wigman for playing along.
1. Chapter 1: Gobsmacked

_This story is a response to Prolegomenon's "To Colonel RE Hogan." I'm grateful for the inspiration._

NOVEMBER 6, 1943

Dear Mavis,

I was gobsmacked to learn that Colonel Hogan has been writing to you, and that you are writing back. And before you try to deny it, I assure you it wasn't hard to suss.

First off, I recognize your handwriting, miss. Second, he gets a sneaky look on his face when the post arrives and he snatches away all the letters with British stamps before anyone can have a look. Then he hides in his office and we hear him snickering through the paper-thin walls of this rat trap. Next thing you know, he's back out here in the main barracks, harassing me about my very reasonable efforts to keep life interesting in this hell hole or badgering me to cut down on smoking.

I mean, who cares if I'm playing shell games with the guards or selling stakes of post-war business enterprises to the other lads? I'm not doing nobody no harm. I'm just trying to accumulate enough fags to keep me from going out of me head with boredom.

Well, I snatched some of them "missives from Mavis" that he carelessly left on his desk. I read them, put them back, and he never had a clue. If that's not proof that I don't need any looking-after, I don't know what is.

All I can say is, are you bloody well kidding me? I don't know what you're up to, my girl, but I thought Mam raised us better than this. We ought to look out for one another, not get into league with devious American Colonels, even if they do have some admirable qualities, such as being devious.

I'd like to know what he's saying to you, but he's an officer and I don't fancy a court martial so I can't really ask him, now can I?

Speaking of Mam, cor, did I need her when I came down with this terrible chest cold. It's gone on for weeks and weeks. Mam would know how to get me better, and I reckon you would have too. But somehow, Louis—my French mate what I've mentioned to you before—came up with a cup of tea that was almost identical to that salty, sweet stuff Mam used to serve us when we were ill!

Now if I could only get Louis to stop sneaking up on me to pour fish stew down my throat or slather me with his grand-mere's mustard plaster, my life would be back to normal, or as close as it can get in this dump. I'd like to have a smoke, for starters. But between being flatulent from fish stew and having no idea what flammable substances Louis is rubbing into my chest, I'm afraid I'll combust if I strike a match.

If you'd like to make up to me for your treachery, please send packets of fags and matches because I shall be over this cold eventually. A new pack of cards, a good pen to mark them with, and some lemon drops wouldn't hurt neither. And kindly confine your Stalag XIII letter writing to me. I'm bleeding lonely, and as long as you're writing anyway, a few more letters to me wouldn't hurt.

And whatever you do, don't go falling for him. He's got women on two continents throwing themselves at him as it is, and I'm not having my favorite sister join his lonely hearts parade.

Love to you and all the family from your thick idiot brother what loves you,  
Peter


	2. Chapter 2: Not Cricket

NOVEMBER 8, 1943

Dear Mavis,

Now wait a tick. Have I got this right? YOU wrote to HIM first? You really are getting on my wick now.

It's not cricket, you having your little chats with the Colonel about me. If you want to set things right, please send tea and a real teapot. That tea would have never spilt if we had proper British equipment.

And stop calling me "Newkirk" in your letters. That's just wrong. I honestly don't know what's worse: You calling me Newkirk or him calling me Peter, which he just did by mistake, and I'm certain it's your fault. Because no one here calls me by my Christian name. Except for LeBeau, sort of. And I don't even want to discuss what he calls me.

Love, probably,

Peter


	3. Chapter 3: Ground Rules

DECEMBER 1, 1943

Dear Mavis,

Colonel Hogan just pulled me aside during exercise time and chewed my ear off about not writing enough letters to my family, starting with you. Well done, mate. You got me sent inside to practice my penmanship on the first sunny day we've had in months.

Where do I start? First of all, all the lads are now asking if they can write to you too. I've threatened them with all manner of bodily harm if they try it, but I wouldn't put it past any of them.

If you get a letter from LeBeau, Olsen, Garlotti, or Addison, rip it up at once. They're dangerous, all of them, and won't give a young lady like yourself the respect she deserves. LeBeau means well, but he's French and can't control himself.

If you get one from Carter, do yourself a favor and burn it, because if you read it you stand a very real chance of being bored witless by his nattering. He's the only person I've ever met who is equally fascinated by bombs and bunny rabbits, and he'll drag you down to his level. He's a nice chap in every other respect, and he does know how to keep his hands to himself around a girl, but he has an explosive side that I just wouldn't want you exposed to.

If you get one from Kinchloe, it would be perfectly fine to read it and even to reply. He's a proper gent, an interesting fellow, and I'm pretty sure he won't gossip to you about me or make any untoward moves. Mind you, the fact that no one here has been able to detect a single character flaw in Kinch does give me pause. I mean, it's not normal, is it? He could be hiding something. Now that I think it through, better safe than sorry-best not to answer him either, don't you think?

As for further correspondence with Colonel Hogan, please be careful. Do yourself a favor and read that story Mam always recited about the Spider and the Fly. It lays my concerns out quite succinctly. He's a fine officer, but he does seem to leave a string of broken hearts in his wake.

Speaking of which, see if you can't get Rita to calm down about me. I only mentioned Betty in passing, and the next thing I know Rita's having kittens. Also, if you could take special care NOT to mention that Cynthia, Penelope, Beryl and Daphne have been my faithful correspondents, I'd find that most helpful.

What else is new? Well, we were having a jitterbug contest here, and I made tidy little sum on the very modest entrance fees I charged for my time-consuming roles as administrator and compère. A few of the lads were unhappy that I couldn't refund their fees after the event was unexpectedly cancelled, but that's life, innit? I'd already sunk my earnings into buying cigarettes and coffee from the lads who got the last batch of Red Cross parcels. It's not like their entrance fees have vanished; they're just circulating in a different form, sustaining our prison camp economy. At least that's what I told them before Lang and Murphy gave me a black eye.

Mam has a cure for the black eye, don't she? Do you suppose you could send it? Now, don't trouble her about it. The less she knows, the less she worries. Even if this eye's better by the time you get the recipe to me, I'm sure I'll need the cure again soon.

I hope you are staying safe at home. I'm not half as worried about bombs as I am about those American GIs crawling about London these days. From what I hear, they are all rather besotted with our beautiful English maidens, having apparently never seen a genuine peaches-and-cream complexion before. America must be a terribly desolate and gloomy place.

Listen, Mavis, I'm not coming home only to find you've shipped out stateside to be some Yankee's housewife. Please don't do that to me. Remember how I taught you to put the boot in? If any of them Yanks touch you, don't hesitate. Just do it.

Your loving brother what misses you all the time even if you are a little sneak,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

**Author's Note:** Newkirk quotes from the 1828 poem "The Spider and the Fly" in "The 43rd, a Moving Story." (s1e23) For those unfamiliar with the poem, read it online! It is a great work of children's literature by Mary Howitt. The cunning spider uses flattery to trap the vain fly. Gosh, we've never heard Hogan do ANYTHING like that, have we?


	4. Chapter 4: Sick Call

_**This is a response to both "Mavis' Missives" by LE Wigman and Chapter 13 of "To Colonel RE Hogan" by Prolegomenon.**_

DECEMBER 12, 1943

Dear Mavis,

I'm writing from the infirmary, where I'm recovering from the shock of reading the words "my love life" from me own sister.

All right, I'm actually here with what our medic Wilson calls "a touch of pneumonia," and your last letter has not improved my breathing one bit. But for heaven's sake, don't worry, I'll be right as rain once I get my hands on a pack of fags. I saw an article in an American magazine called "Life" that said doctors have proved that cigarettes help to improve or completely clear up throat and lung irritation. Wilson clearly needs to read more.

But back to you. You don't need my advice about the blokes I spend day and night with? Right-o, then. That's me told. If LeBeau or Carter or Kinch writes to you and you want to have a torrid correspondence, carry on. I can see you're all growed up and ready to take on the world. If you've already walked out with that flat-footed, wheezy, unfit-for-service little blighter Jack Pierson, who must be, ooh, all of 22 by now, there's really not much more your big brother can tell you, now is there? I stand by my warnings about those other three lads though. They're all driving me potty by continuing to express an unhealthy interest in you.

Just don't say I didn't warn you, especially when LeBeau has you all tied up in knots with his seductive French phrases, just like the other 10 or 12 pretty girls what are writing him. Let's just put it this way. I've helped him compose a letter more than once. He's me best mate, and that means I know exactly what he's up to.

All I'm saying, Mave, is that I know these blokes. And if I happen to think my sister is too good for even my best chums, well, it's a fair cop.

As for the Colonel, just try not to tell him anything he can use to embarrass me. Is that asking too much?

And if you see Jack Pierson again, kindly remind him that your brother's the one what got him out of that mess with all three of Cynthia Quillan's brothers in the back alley of The Red Lion. Jack's not the brightest chap, but I'm sure he can put two and two together. And he still owes me two quid for a couple of pints, an ice bag, and the damage them Quillans did to my new suit right before I left for basic training. It took me six hours to reweave an elbow and a knee from a swatch cut from the selvedge and I'm still not happy with the result.

It's a pity you couldn't find Mam's black eye remedy, as there is no beefsteak here. The shiner did clear up after a couple of weeks. LeBeau insists it's because he slopped it with some gloppy oatmeal mixed with something called wolf's bane. While I rather like the sound of wolf's bane, the remedy was a ruddy mess and it felt disgusting. Plus I had LeBeau hovering over me constantly and insisting that this horrible concoction needed at least two hours to "rest" on my face. I think when you asked Hogan to look after me, he must have appointed LeBeau me personal nanny.

And yes, I am grateful that you have resumed calling me Peter. I am disturbed, however, to notice that the Colonel's now signing off as "Robert" and addressing you as "Mavis." That's a bit cheeky even for an officer. And yeah, he tried to cover up the letter when he was writing it, but he wasn't quick enough for me.

If I may make a mild suggestion, please try signing your letters "Miss Newkirk." That will send the message that you are a proper young lady and that your emotions are not to be trifled with. It will also reinforce that you are my sister, which Hogan appears to have forgot.

Love from your very concerned and extremely wise brother,

Peter

_Gee, I wonder when LeBeau is going to write a letter to Mavis-or vice versa! I think it's time someone stepped in with that! (It won't be me - I'm sticking with one voice.)_

_And yes, there really were doctors' testimonials in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s about how smoking could improve lung function. _


	5. Chapter 5: Christmas '43

_**And on it goes. This is in response to Chapters 15-17 of Prolegomenon's "To Colonel RE Hogan." Somebody, please start writing for LeBeau, Carter, and Kinch!**_

DECEMBER 26, 1943

Dear Mavis,

I hope you, Mam and the rest of the family had a very Happy Christmas. I also hope the Llywellyns didn't break too much of the furniture or go anywhere near my magic kit. I'll cripple that little runt Caerwyn if he lays hands on my top hat again.

We did our best to lift the holiday spirits here at Stalag XIII. We decorated the barracks with what we could find, which was a few pine cones, white and yellow paint and bits of green and red paper. We persuaded our barracks guard, Schultz, to find us some holly branches, and he did us one better. He brought us loads of branches to make wreaths, and even gave us some of the gingerbread his wife Gretchen makes for all the Kraut guards every Christmas.

Somehow, LeBeau managed to cook us all a proper, fish-free feast on Christmas Eve, with a bit of goose and ham and potatoes and Brussels sprouts and carrots. He even made a bread pudding, which was remarkably similar to the one Mam makes.

And yes, I took myself along to mass, because I can still feel you and Mam tugging me there by the ear if I don't want to go, which I didn't, but I went anyway. The mass ended with a nice Christmas carol sing-song, which continued all the way back to the barracks.

As it happened, we had a bit of grog tucked away, and decided to celebrate before bedtime, so the carols continued and got more and more interesting. Carter and LeBeau were legless in no time flat, but the rest of us hardy lads were able to hold our drink. Of course, I brought the house down with my special rendition of Good King Wenceslas:

_Good King Wenceslas looked out_

_Of his bedroom window_

_Silly bugger he fell out_

_On a red hot cinder_

_Brightly shone his bum that night_

_Though the frost was cruel_

_Till the doctor came in sight_

_Riding on a mule_

Well, that was when the guards arrived and threatened us all with no rations for a week if we didn't shut the bloody hell up. Schultz would have been a lot nicer, but he was home with his wife and kids, so we were stuck with the cranky ones what had to work on Christmas Eve. So we quieted down but we were still in a jolly mood, murmuring and humming and telling jokes.

That is, until Colonel Hogan had the clever idea to ask us all to "reflect on what good things had happened recently." But of course reflecting wasn't enough. He wanted us to speak our gratitude out loud, and he picked on me first, the blighter. Blimey, talk about a killjoy.

Well, of course I had a banner year. I mean, three and a half years here in palatial Stalag XIII, dining on fish stew and stale bread and trying not to throw up. The highlight of 1943 for me was that I didn't die of pneumonia. And apart from that triumph, there was the fact that my favorite sister, who I love so dearly that my heart could burst, is writing letters to everyone but me. How could things possibly get any better?

So when the Colonel asked me to say something good, I did what I do best. I lied through my teeth and said I was ever so happy that he'd struck up a friendly correspondence with my sister, because she really is the loveliest girl in the world and would be a comfort to any friend. I put special emphasis on the words "friendly," "sister," "girl," and "friend." He's nearly 40, in case you were wondering. Well, he's 35 or 36 as far we can tell, but still. Not quite twice your age, but not far off.

Then I decided to say what I really thought, which is that I'm grateful for the Colonel's kindness and leadership and for treating us all like we really count and for having the best mates I've ever had, even if we do live like animals and dine on swill, except for when Louis cooks.

But then I thought, "No, Peter, don't bare your soul. It's not British." So I shut up before I said another word. No point giving them all swelled heads. I still have to live with these blokes.

So we went round and round and finally everyone asked the Colonel to say what he was grateful for. He just smiled the sneaky way he sometimes does, looked around the room but mostly at me and LeBeau and Carter and Kinch. He said he'd never had a better team and he was grateful for us every minute, and that he knew our families loved and missed us, and that all he wanted to do was get us home safe and sound.

That rotter. We all just gulped and tried to look tough, but it wasn't easy. Good thing I still had the remnants of a cold because I could pull me handkerchief out without looking entirely feeble, unlike Carter, who started sniffling like a little girl and of course began babbling, and Kinch, who blew his nose like a trumpet and excused himself to check on the ... well, never mind what he was checking. Then LeBeau started blubbering because he's French and can't control himself, and I had to take him aside to buck him up.

It was all going just grand, and then on Boxing Day more letters arrived. Even better, right? Wrong!

I received another lovely letter from Mam and a nice long one from Auntie Anwen Llywellyn, but none from you, oddly. I did notice your handwriting on two letters addressed to the Colonel, however. I couldn't help but think that one of those must have been meant for me, so I asked the Colonel. He assured me that they were both his.

At lunchtime Colonel Hogan seemed to be sulking a bit, and suddenly he went off on a tirade about the "peculiar" ways words are spelled by "the Brits," by which he clearly means you and me. He is referring, of course, to proper English, the language of Shakespeare, as spoke and wrote by us.

It turns out that they have a severe shortage of the letter "u" over in America, because they leave it out of all manner of words where it is absolutely necessary. "Favour," "colour," "humour." The Colonel said he regards the letter "u" as "frequently Sue-PURR-flu-is," whatever that means. What am I, a bleeding dictionary? I'm not sure why, but he seemed to be aiming his criticism at me.

It's not like me to take anyone's side against you, Ducks, but whatever you said to him, you might need to ease off. You do seem to be rather a ray of sunshine in his life.

Mavis, you might find it hard to believe, but even a letter from a very young girl you hardly know at all from an entirely different land who would never, ever marry you because you're much too old for her and you're her brother's commanding officer to boot can be a treasure to a lonely prisoner of war. I mean, Carter's sister could write me a letter and I'd probably fall madly in love and be ready to move to Frog Junction or wherever he's from. It's just a fact of life as a POW. Not that he appears to have a sister of suitable age, thank the good Lord because I'm definitely not moving there.

I suppose that's a way of saying it's all right if you want to write letters to the rest of them. As long as you don't forget me.

Oh, you might also find it amusing to know that the Colonel absolutely, positively cannot pronounce "Llywellyn." We worked on it for a half hour, but it still comes out as "Lou Ellen." He seems to think if there are two L's in a name, you just emphasize the L sound. Americans.

Your loving brother,

Peter


	6. Chapter 6: New Year's Day '44

JANUARY 1, 1944

Dear Mavis,

This is just a short note to wish you a happy New Year. I hope you managed to have a little fun, and I hope this is the year this bloody war ends so I can see you again.

We didn't have New Year's Eve plans in our barracks, so I scarpered off to celebrate with the Scots, who were having a proper knees up in Barracks 12. Somehow they managed to brew some gold watch and by midnight we were all one over the eight and belting at the top of our lungs. My rendition of "Whiskey in the Jar" was a great success, if I may say so.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the guards what broke it up – it was a very stroppy Colonel Hogan! He came looking for me, sent all the Scots to bed and frog-marched me back to our humble abode, muttering some rubbish about how he regretted ever promising to take care of me. I seem to remember him invoking your name, but I can't be sure because by then the hallucinations were kicking in. This I woke up in the Colonel's spare bunk with a pounding headache, a week of KP, and a long day of honking ahead of me, but I think it was worth it. At least as far as I can remember. Anyway, Louis got me all cleaned up, and here I am, right as rain and mostly keeping food down.

Oh, and KP is the Yank version of being on jankers, but I reckon you worked that out already.

But that's not why I'm writing. I just realized there was something urgent I needed to mention. It's something what came to me in a vision while I was singing with them Scots, and I'm sure my instincts are right.

Whatever you do, please don't send your photograph to any of the lads you're corresponding with, especially Colonel Hogan. They've all had a glimpse of my photos of you, and that really needs to be enough. They are well aware that you are very, very pretty.

I'm afraid that if they had the chance to study your photograph, they'd all realize how similar in appearance we are. Then they'll all be staring deep into my eyes, and I'm going to have to smash all their faces in. You wouldn't want my court martial on your conscience, would you?

With love from your handsome and deeply concerned brother,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

**NOTES:** A _knees up_ is a rollicking party. _Gold watc_h is Cockney rhyming slang for scotch whiskey. _One over the eight_ means drunk. A _stroppy_ person is really, really annoyed. _Honking_ is, well, something that happens after you've had way too much alcohol.


	7. Chapter 7: Burns Night

JANUARY 25, 1944

Dear Mavis,

Well, here it is, Burns Night. I can't help but notice that while I'm writing letter after letter to you, I'm not getting letters back. I'm fairly certain the post is not to blame, as I do see letters from one "Mavis Newkirk" practically flooding our barracks week after week.

I have heard from Rita and Penelope and Daphne, as well as Granny and Arthur and of course Mam. Even Uncle Harold managed to write to me, and him with only one arm. I'm wondering if you could possibly see your way to writing to your dear brother with either one of your perfectly healthy two arms.

As for Burns Night, I'm afraid I won't be celebrating. I'm under strict orders from Colonel Hogan to stay clear of Barracks 12, and Kinch has been appointed to distract me with ribald Shakespearean verse. I don't think ribald is really to Kinch's taste, but I'm certain he'll do his best to entertain me.

It's a terrible pity to miss the neeps and tatties though I'm glad to give the haggis a pass. Also, I had a really funny recitation all prepared about a drunken Scotsman, his kilt, and a couple of clever girls who plant a blue ribbon on him while he's asleep in the gutter. I'm sure it would have been very popular, and even if it wasn't, at least we have LeBeau's black eye remedy, though sadly not Mam's, yet. (Hint, hint.)

I hope you know how much I love you and miss you. Also, I could really use that teapot we discussed.

With love from your thick, idiot brother who didn't mean to hurt your feelings in any way,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

**NOTES**. _**Burns Night**_ is an evening of Scottish poetry and revelry celebrated on Robert Burns' birthday each January 25. The idea of Newkirk falling in with the Scots is sort of inspired by the movie "The Devil's Brigade," though mostly I just think he needs some drinking pals. _**Neeps and tatties**_ are parsnips and potatoes, part of the traditional fare, though in all truth I think Newkirk's more concerned about missing out on the whiskey. The song Newkirk really wanted to sing at Burns Night is **_The Scotsman_**, which in all truth wasn't written until the 70s. But it's funny and kind of perfect, if a bit rude. I recommend Seamus Kennedy's version, which can be found on YouTube.


	8. Chapter 8: Burns Night Redux

JANUARY 26, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I just couldn't bear it. Thanks to Uncle Gwilym and his years on stage, I've already memorized every off-colour passage from Shakespeare, and there was something about hearing them from Kinch that just set my teeth gnashing. I mean, he is the most perfect and apparently noble chap in the camp, with no discernible flaws whatsoever. It was like trading dirty jokes with a priest. Very uncomfortable.

So last night I told him I was knackered and tucked myself in bed at lights out—9 o'clock if you can bloody well believe it. Nobody even noticed when 45 minutes later I was tugging on my boots and taking off in my nightshirt and greatcoat (and a tartan scarf what I pinched from Donnelly) for Barracks 12 where I don't mind telling you the ale and whiskey was flowing. It was a pity I missed the piping in, but I did arrive in time for some cock-a-leekie soup.

Did I say nobody noticed? Well, at least I thought not. That was, until about 11 pm when Kinch and Hogan showed up. I assumed they were there for the culture. I mean, we were all having a grand time reciting and discussing Rabbie's poems. I had just stood up to recite "To a Louse," a very meaningful poem for any POW, but Roderick MacDonough insisted it was his turn, and there was a bit of an argy bargy.

Like the gents we are, Roddy and I settled our dispute by agreeing that I could make the toast to the lassies, and all was well once I got a cold rag on my nose. But the next thing I knew Hogan was shutting the whole Burns Supper down, and Kinch was dragging me back to the barracks and tossing me into Carter's bunk. As if I couldn't be trusted to climb up to me own or stay there without falling out!

Well, I woke up on the floor at 6 am and mustered out for rollcall, and it's been downhill ever since. I've got more KP (jankers, remember?) as soon as I can keep me breakfast down.

I don't know why I'm even telling you this except that Colonel Hogan and Kinch both keep looking at me, shaking their heads, and writing their bloody letters with snickers and grins forming on their evil faces. I'm just sitting here trying to be a good lad while LeBeau scolds me not to pick at the oatmeal he just slapped on my nose and eye, but I'm just trying to keep it from dripping on this letter to you, my favorite sister.

So that was my Burns Night. I expect my headache will die down to a dull roar by tomorrow morning. And I hope you had more fun than I did. Some days I wish you and Mam could just come and bring me home like you used to do.

Love from your extremely knackered brother,

Peter


	9. Chapter 9: Be My Valentine

_**This is in response to LE Wigman's "Mavis' Missives," Chapter 4.**_

FEBRUARY 14, 1944

Dear Mavis,

There's no doubt about it. I am a bad 'un, just as I've always been. Colonel Hogan says I give him more grey hairs than the rest of the camp altogether, and there are 900 of us.

But Mave, it's so bloody dull here, and some loud singing fortified by a wee dram of whiskey never hurt anyone. Remember when Granny used to look after us and spike our tea with a nipperkin or two to quiet us down before bedtime? That's one way to get the kiddies to relax—you might want to keep it in mind if you're stuck with them any longer.

Poor Aunt Gwynedd, I'll drop her a note, though I half wonder if a pint of ale wasn't involved in her tumble. She is a Llywellyn, after all, and we know they can't hold their drink. I quite like writing to the Welsh clan, if only for the entertainment value of daring Colonel Hogan to pronounce the names and addresses. He's absolute rubbish at this one thing and not much else besides drawing and singing, so it's good fun to see him struggle.

Anyhow, he's placed me under strict orders not to consort with the Scots in Barracks 12 unless it's daylight. No mention of the Ulster lads in Barracks 16, though, and St. Patrick's Day is right around the corner. It gives me something to look forward to.

It is really lovely to hear from you, Ducks, and the possibility of getting some of your biscuits is grand. I sent Mam and you and the rest of the sisters some valentines, which I had to make on the sly to avoid being mocked. Drawing, writing and posting seven surreptitious valentines was no small feat, and I hope you received yours, as it was the best of the lot along with Mam's. Well, I did all right with Rita's too, so that's eight.

I got a few valentines back. Rita, of course, is still potty for me. Kathleen's came with a long, droning description of the potato harvest. I really need to introduce her to Carter when she's done being a Land Girl, as I'm quite sure they would talk each other's ears off and not even notice. Maggie worried me a bit with her response. She drew herself as a cheeky little curly headed soldier looking though the sight of a gun and saying "I aim to be your valentine." She's 12 now, is she? Has she gone completely bonkers, or still just slightly mad?

And by the way, you're going to make a marvelous mummy. Just do it in England where I can see you once in a while. If you go to America with "Robert" (Really, Mave?) I don't know what I'll do. Follow you, probably, kicking and screaming all the way.

Love from your first Valentine and don't you bloody well forget it,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

**NOTES: **My off-the-boat eastern European grandmother believed strongly in the medicinal value of blackberry brandy for obstreperous children. Just saying that Peter's Granny comes by her inclinations honestly. Kathleen is the third Newkirk sibling from my story "In the Name of the Father." She was borrowed shamelessly (well, with permission) from _**dust on the wind**_'s superb story, "Esk Road: The Rest of the Family." Maggie, properly known as Margaret, is the eighth of 10 Newkirk siblings from dust's story, but is not yet on the scene in my stories. As dust put, it "Margaret had the art of social dissembling down pat. Or to put it another way, she waited till you weren't paying attention, then put the boot in." That description was enough for me to decide she took after her brother.


	10. Chapter 10: The Barley Mow

_**The author is now asking and answering her own questions. That's tops in German efficiency! This chapter responds to Chapters 21-22 of Prolegomenon's "**_**To Colonel RE Hogan**_**."**_

FEBRUARY 21, 1944

Dear Peter,

Maggie just turned 13. Everyone says she's exactly like you.

I'm not sure what you've got planned for St. Patrick's Day, but please be careful. I've counted two black eyes, a bloody nose and a crash out of your bunk in the past two months, and those are just the injuries you've told me about. And for heaven's sake, don't start singing "The Barley Mow." Twenty-one verses of that, and you'll be hung over till Easter. Which happens to be April 9 this year, so please plan on getting your heathen arse to church. I'll be reminding Robert and James to look out for your soul even if you won't.

Now, I have a hypothetical question for you. If your sister were invited to fly in an aeroplane after the war with a trained pilot at the controls, would you insist on going along? I ask only because I'm debating whether I'm going to need Maggie to put the boot in or whether I can handle that task myself. It will boil down to how much of a lady I wish to be in the eyes of the aforementioned pilot.

Your loving sister,

Mavis

**H=H=H=H=H**

FEBRUARY 28, 1944

Dear Mavis,

Clearly the censors are lying down on the job, because I was able to read every word of your last letter. You're tormenting me on purpose, aren't you? By all means, fly away. I'll be waiting on the ground, praying for your safe return and stitching your wedding dress. And in case you think I can't, I assure you I've had more practice with those than is really quite proper for a gentleman's tailor.

I'm pleased to say that Colonel Hogan got permission for a fully sanctioned St. Patrick's Day celebration, thanks to our diligent work clearing the roads after a post-St. Valentine's Day snowstorm. The good news is that I won't have to sneak out. The bad news is that Colonel Hogan, being half-Irish, has decided to attend the event himself and has pledged to personally monitor my beverage consumption.

And yes, as a matter of fact I _am_ planning to sing "The Barley Mow." I've determined through raw intelligence and a bit of stealth that Colonel Hogan does not know this song, and I'm betting that 21 consecutive small sips of ale will sneak up on him, putting him in a positive of frame of mind and enabling the rest of us to enjoy a rousing sing-along for a change.

Please tell Maggie she is now in the running to become my favorite sister, especially if the best one decamps. As for any references to "Robert" or "James," la, la, la, la, la. I can't hear you.

Your beloved brother who begs you to remember that you are first and foremost British,

Newkirk (which is what everyone here quite properly calls me, and I use their surnames too, thank you very much.)

**H=H=H=H=H**

"The Barley Mow" is a really entertaining cumulative folk song in which each verse is longer than the one before it. It requires excellent memorization skills and verbal acrobatics. Think "pub-singer-meets-auctioneer" and you've got the idea. My favorite version, by Seamus Kennedy, can easily be found on YouTube. Sorry, no luck pasting a link in here! It's become a drinking song and is often sung in Irish pubs, but it is also part of the folk tradition in England and Scotland.


	11. Chapter 11: St Patrick's Day Plans

MARCH 1, 1944

Dear Robert,

A word to the wise: If my brother begins singing on St. Patrick's Day, you've got about an hour before he goes completely off the rails. He seldom sings unless alcohol is involved. Don't be fooled by the fact that he can carry a tune or remember all the words to his favorite ditties, particularly the obscene ones. He is as defective in the common-sense department as he is talented in his capacity for drink. This is a bad combination.

Also, please keep an ear to the ground for any references he may make to "the Ulster Lads." I guarantee that any time he spends in the company of the Northern Irish between now and March 17 is part of some plot he's hatching and will not end well for anyone.

Robert, please don't take this the wrong way, but your continued success in looking after Peter will affect my willingness to fly in an aeroplane with you at some time in the future. As annoying as Peter is, he is still my brother and I am counting on you to get him home to us in one piece, with most of his limited brain cells intact. His letters since Christmas have been, to put it mildly, alarming. He sounds desperately bored and in need of a hobby other than drinking and rabble-rousing. You poor chaps must lead a dreadfully dull life.

I realize having my bother under your command has been and remains a burden, but he assures me you are an extraordinary and principled man of exceptional talent. Not that he has used those words, mind you. It's just that he calls you "the Guv," and in his limited vocabulary, that's the same thing.

On a separate matter, perhaps you could encourage him to attend religious services on Easter. By "encourage," I mean grasp him firmly by the ear and march with determination toward your destination. I'm sure you've got the marching bit down, and if you attend with him and restrain him bodily, I imagine some moral lesson might stand a chance of sinking into that thick skull of his.

Palm Sunday could also work, because shredding the free foliage into little strips will keep his hands busy during an hour when he can't smoke. You'll need to be creative, but based on everything I'm hearing, his soul could use all the help it can get.

Affectionately,

Mavis

**HHHHH**

MARCH 19, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I'm afraid your letter reached me too late, which is a pity, since you were right about everything.

Newkirk is in the cooler. Singing was involved, but it was a minor factor, all things considered. I'm pretty sure it was the fourth pint of beer and the incident with the hurling stick that did him in. Are you familiar with this sport of hurling? When the equipment arrived from the Irish Red Cross, my first thought was that it must be like field hockey, which is a girls' sport in America. That was before I saw Newkirk charging downfield toward O'Malley with that stick, which looks like a cross between a giant spoon and a shovel.

Further details will follow, but let me just say he's safe and sober. The other good news is he only required six stitches and still has all his teeth, unlike O'Malley, who will have to go through the rest of the war with the smile of a seven year old. That look is not nearly as cute on a burly Irishman with a red beard that no razor can tame. Anyway, your brother's been in there for two nights and has been a model prisoner, since he's in too much pain to move much. I hope the Kommandant will see his way to releasing him tomorrow so I can put him back on KP.

And don't worry. He already stands next to me during roll call for obvious reasons, and he will be seated right next to me at Sunday services from now on, even if I have to tie him down. We have a fine chaplain, and I'll ask him to drop the following verse into his next sermon. Fittingly, it's from 1 Peter 4:3: "For you have spent enough time in the past doing what pagans choose to do—living in debauchery, lust, drunkenness, orgies, carousing and detestable idolatry."

Actually, I'm going to ask him to trim a word or two. We don't want to give Newkirk any ideas. Just know that I'm committed to doing everything to ensure that we will be able to take a pleasant, enjoyable, worry-free flight over the beautiful English countryside when I finally get to meet you.

Fondly,

Robert

PS, did you mistakenly call Peter your "bother" in the last letter, or was that deliberate?


	12. Chapter 12: In Re: Louis LeBeau

_**In response to "Mavis' Missives" by L.E. Wigman, Chapter 5. Bam.**_

March 30, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I know it's nearly Easter, but if you receive a letter from my mate LeBeau and it refers to Christmas, please rest assured that I had nothing to do with delaying its delivery.

For example, I did not pinch it from the outgoing post to use as a bookmark. Nor did I turn it over reluctantly to Colonel Hogan when he noticed Louis' handwriting peeking out of my volume of "Cold Comfort Farm." Which by the way is ruddy funny and you should read it. Not that I'm changing the subject or anything.

LeBeau's not a bad bloke but he is French and therefore unable to control himself, especially around females. And trust me, when he rhapsodizes about food, he is in fact thinking aroused thoughts about women. Namely, you. Which is all good and well if you don't mind thinking of yourself as a succulent Christmas turkey. Which, by the way, he calls "dinde" and serves with chestnuts. Isn't that repulsive?

So please watch what you say to him and don't encourage him in any way.

Your loving brother who only wants to protect you,

Peter

PS, Now mum's on my arse with a soppy letter about how she let us all down. Could you please put your letters from me away instead of leaving them strewn all across the kitchen where she can find them? You know, there are things I only tell you. That's because you're my favorite sister who I love so dearly that my heart could burst, even if you are irrationally attracted to devious and strangely unflawed Americans and puny Frenchman.


	13. Chapter 13: My Dearest Mummy

_**In response to "Mavis' Missives" by L.E. Wigman, Chapter 6. He's incorrigible.**_

March 30, 1944

My Dearest Mummy,

May I still call you that? Being so far from home, Mam or Mum doesn't seem to quite cover the depth of my affection for you. My love for you needs at least two syllables. One simply isn't enough.

How unfortunate that Mavis didn't explain the good fun we were having with our letters back and forth. You know how brothers and sisters are—always trying to provoke one another just for giggles and speaking in their own special language. We were just being a bit silly and I'm afraid we got carried away in an excess of good humour. That's just how we are together, mad as hatters.

So of course everything is perfectly grand here at Stalag 13. If I was into any trouble at all, such as nights in the cooler, fights with hurling sticks, excessive drinking, or being kicked into submission by anyone, I would confide in you. I might have had one black eye and needed a few stitches here and there, and I did have a touch of pneumonia. But you know me, stiff upper lip and all that. This is really nothing worse than I'd have in an ordinary month back home in London, is it?

I do worry about all of you, though. Especially Mavis, who seems to have developed an unnatural fascination for American flyers. How unfortunate that she isn't meeting any solid British chaps. But I suppose all the brave men are soldiers and are off at war. Perhaps all that remains are foreigners who spend their days loafing around London in offices lent to them by the good and noble British people.

I'm surrounded by Americans here, and therefore I am highly attuned to the methods they use to entrap and ensnare young girls. And as you know, I have always been fiercely protective of my sisters. All of them, really, but most especially of Mavis, as she is on the brink of womanhood. Or might have already fallen off the edge. I'm not sure, really, as it's been a few years since I got a good look at her.

It would ease my mind ever so much if you would monitor her post to make sure she is not getting too caught up in correspondence with one of my fellow POWs, a chap called "Hogan." Good fellow, that Hogan, but he's entirely wrong for my favorite sister.

As for my attitude toward Auntie Gwynedd, I'm not quite sure what you're on about. I sent Auntie a lovely letter after Mavis let slip about her unfortunate accident and I didn't mention her drinking once.

I hope you and all six of my darling sisters got my Valentines. It took me hours and hours to make them by hand, and I spent the most time on yours, especially that poem. It had to be perfect because after all, that's what you are to me. Perfect.

And yes, I am attending church regularly in a constant effort to purify my soul and be worthy of your love.

From your eldest son who adores you beyond compare,

Peter

March 31, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I wrote a long, apologetic letter to Mam. Please back me up on everything. You know how madly I love her. I would never want to break her heart. Help?

Perhaps you could just say a few nice things about me. For example, you could say how lovely my Valentines were, or how solicitous I've been about Maggie and Auntie. Or you could detail how helpful I am to other POWs, always cheerfully doing my KP. She doesn't need to know it's the same as Jankers. Or you could say in passing that I so often mention our chaplain's inspiring sermons. Something like that. I trust you to figure it out, Ducks.

Any of these comments would go a long way toward easing my concerns about your interest in certain American officers. Do you think you could talk him into settling in London?

Your favorite brother,

Peter


	14. Chapter 14: Dear Mum, I Am Not a Pillock

_**With a little nudge from two higher powers, only one of whom is a Colonel, Newkirk has reconsidered that contemptible effort to pull the wool over his own mum's eyes and is now baring his soul in most un-British fashion. **_

April 2, 1944

Dear Mum,

It turns out that Colonel Hogan had a peek at my last letter to you before I posted it. Well, I had already dropped it in the box and sent it off to England when he called me into his office for a chat. Even though that letter's gone, he thought I owed it to you to try again. And I suppose I agreed.

I'm sorry, Mum. Sometimes I'm a proper pillock, trying to put one over on you. Nobody else knows me as well or loves me as much as you do. Not even Mavis, and that is saying quite a bit.

The truth is, I've had a right awful winter. I've been restless and unhappy and I've been fighting and carousing and getting into all sorts of trouble. Nearly four long years as a POW will do that to a chap. I know it's not an excuse, really. I miss all of you terribly, and I miss home. I even miss Da sometimes, if you can believe that. He has never sent me a single letter in my time here, and it makes my heart ache. Still, someday I'd like to talk to him, man to man, about going off to war. If God spares us both, perhaps I'll get the chance someday.

And yes, I did just say God. And no, I'm not trying to trick you again. You know I've had a difficult relationship with that man upstairs. Sometimes I think He's forgotten all about me, and most of the time I know I've been a terrible disappointment to Him, as I have to you. You know all my flaws; no need for me to repeat them here so the censors can find out about them too. Let's just agree that the seven deadly sins are for rank amateurs, and Peter Newkirk is no amateur.

Most of the chaps in our barracks go to religious services every week. Regardless of their background, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, they all go, sometimes all together, sometimes separately. Our chaplain's not a bad bloke, but I've always preferred to stay behind and let everyone go off and be all holy together. Other than a jolly Christmas sing-song, I could never pull off church attendance with any sincerity, and that's the truth. I know all the parts I'm supposed to say, because my Mummy brought me up right and I've got the scars on my ears to prove it. But the meaning seems to get lost somewhere between my mouth and my heart. And I feel like a right phony saying the words but not truly believing them or living by them.

So like I said, I've preferred to stay behind in the barracks, indulging in the pleasures of solitude. For one hour a week, I get to be alone with my thoughts and do what I want.

Then Colonel Hogan pointed out to me that my thoughts didn't seem to be doing me any favours. That I spent more time cooking up trouble than any man in camp and I might need a different way to quiet my mind than loafing around while everyone was out. I suppose he could be right. He's the Guv, after all, one of the best men I've ever known. So he made me promise to give it a try, going to services with him like you and Mavis want me to do. Something in his look made me think he might just drag me there and sit on me. Maybe I was just thinking about you and your hand clutching my ear, but in any event I decided to go peaceably. I figured if I didn't fight it, maybe I could just close my eyes and look prayerful while actually catching up on my sleep. As you know, I've got experience with doing that.

I don't know what it is with people like you and Mavis and Colonel Hogan, but somehow you seem to know me better than I know myself. Because this morning, on Palm Sunday, I was sitting there under Colonel Hogan's watchful eye, quietly tearing the palms into tiny strips because I was going out of my mind without my smokes.

And then I hear the priest say these words: "Almighty God, you alone can bring into order the unruly wills and affections of sinners."

And I thought, bloody hell. He's talking directly to me, isn't he? I am unruly and willful and bloody sinful and I have a mouth on me, which my mate Kinch keeps threatening to wash out with soap, just like you always did.

Mam, it's a long and rambling way of saying I'm sorry for being what my American friends call "a jerk." Good word, that. In case you're wondering, it means a git or an arse. Oh, here I go again, saying naughty words to me own Mam. I am sorry, again.

I'd like you to know that even though I've been a proper pain all winter to everyone around me, being a military man really has been good for me. Even as a POW, I can take pride in service to my country and try to live an honourable life. I do believe, because you always taught me this, that we are here for a higher purpose, and slowly but surely I am finding mine. While I'm still not sure that sitting in a worship service week after is for me, it didn't hurt and might have helped me think a bit more clearly.

Please forgive me for being such a difficult son. I promise to make you proud and try harder to be good in every part of my life.

And could you do me one little favour, Mam? I've been asking Mavis for months to send me a Brown Betty. How hard can it be to find a proper tea pot and ship it out to her favourite brother who asks so little of her? Could you remind her that a proper cup of tea is a balm for the soul? Since you and she are pretty concerned with my soul these days, it wouldn't hurt to throw in some tea and sugar with the shipment. I'll be able to scrounge up milk.

Your loving son,

Peter

**XXX**

Written in response to L.E. Wigman's "Mavis' Missives," Chapter 6. Hat tip to Snooky-9093 for pointing out in response to Prolegomenon that "He needs a Brown Betty." I had completely forgotten that there was a name for the classic kitchen teapot. Charming visual of Kinch threatening to wash Newkirk's mouth out with soap borrowed with permission from "Getting to Know You,' Chapter 5, by SoFleek.


	15. Chapter 15: Mavis Strikes Back

_**This is yet another response to L.E. Wigman's "Mavis' Missives," Chapter 5. I'll stop now.**_

April 19, 1944

Dear Pierre,

Got you, didn't I? I've been wondering since your letter of November 8 what you meant when you said you "don't even want to discuss" what Louis calls you. It was awfully nice of him to fill me in, wasn't it? Rest assured, the entire family has now been apprised of your nickname. You can expect everyone from Granny down to little Noel to call you by it when you return home, if not before then.

And don't think I didn't see that sneaky letter you wrote to "Dearest Mummy." You're getting rusty, lad, if that's the best conniving you can do. Mam saw right through it and spent the evening in tears, wondering how she had gone so wrong with you. Personally, I thought she had raised a skilled liar, not a rank amateur, and that must have been eating at her. She says, she is in despair for your soul, so you'd better plan on giving her a full report on your Lenten sacrifice and how you spent Easter.

Also, that letter to me about LeBeau was about the stupidest and most transparent thing you've ever written. Are you that dim naturally, Pierre, or do you have to work at it?

"Cold Comfort Farm" was very funny though, especially the bit about Seth's mollocking. Oh dear, I'm sorry, I'm your precious little sister and I'm not supposed to know about such things. Well, too bad. I'm all grown up, now, Pierre, and you need to quit being such a Nosy Parker about MY LOVE LIFE. There, I said it.

And no, I shall not do your dirty work for you. If you want Mam to think better of you, try behaving better.

A Brown Betty is on its way to you against my better judgment, because as dim and thick as you are, you are still my bother. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say 'bother'? Well, that's because I meant it.

I still love you, but good Lord, Pierre, you are trying my nerves. Robert's going to have a talk with you about your wretched actions, trust me.

With constant love from your devoted sister who really deserves better than this rubbish,

Mavis

PS, I hope you had a Happy Easter. I hope there was no rabbit stew, because that would simply be awful. Please tell me the French don't eat that.

**XXX**

Footnote: In Dust on the Wind's excellent "Esk Road: The Rest of the Family," Noel is the youngest of 10 Newkirk siblings. He'd be around 10 in 1944, I suppose.


	16. Chapter 16: Mavis Relents

April 28, 1944

Dear Peter,

Well now it's my turn to feel like a right fool. Directly after I fired off my last dispatch, Mam showed me the lovely letter you wrote her on Palm Sunday. She was thrilled to bits. Ever since, she's been talking about you like you walk on water. Of course, in Mam's opinion, you always did.

You know, Peter, when you stop mucking about and act serious once in a while, you really do sound quite sensible and not a bit like a prat. I've always known you have a heart of gold, even when you do your best to hide it. You might try to ignore your better angels, but you always do us proud in the end.

There's growing hope here at home that the war may be at a turning point. We've heard this before, so perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I choose to be optimistic. War is often the worst at the end, though, isn't it? Please keep your letters coming and I shall do the same. For all your squabbling, witless advice, and interference, you keep me sane. I worry all the time about you, as I know you do about me and Mam and all the kiddies. I need to hear from you, Pete.

Speaking of the family, I was visiting with Mam and the kiddies last Sunday for tea when Da stopped by quite unexpectedly. He was clean-shaven and surprisingly well turned-out, and hadn't had a drink in days. Of course, he always looks sharp when he's coming straight from his free lodgings with His Majesty. God knows what he was in for. He'll never say, and Mam certainly won't. We'll see how the next few weeks go. Mam offered him your bed up in the attic hallway, but he said he would stay with Vera and Alfie until he could get himself a bed-sit and that he didn't want to disrupt the kiddies' lives. It turns out Alfie was with Da for a time in the shovel once again, though Alf got out sooner. I don't how two old geezers get nicked over and over. You think they'd get better at whatever fiddle they're up to after all this time, wouldn't you?

I remember you telling me a long time ago how happy we all were when Da came home from prison the first time, when we were 5 and 10, and how good-natured he was when he was calm and sober. Peter, he was so kind, chatting and tossing horseshoes in the garden with all the kiddies. And when he laughed with Mam, he reminded me so much of you that I had to go off and have a little cry when he left. There was a peacefulness about him that I don't recall ever seeing before. I wish he'd go off the booze and stay like this, but I don't hold out much hope.

I do hope the war will end soon and we'll have you back home. When that happens, we'll all head down to The Ten Bells or The Red Lion—you can choose. And we'll sing "The Barley Mow" and "Whiskey in the Jar" and "Land of My Fathers" and "God Save the King" at the top of our lungs together, all right?

And I'll bloody well kiss whomever I wish while we're at it. I might even join in for a verse or two of "God Bless America."

Your loving sister,

Mavis

PS, I hope you're enjoying your tea. Buying and shipping that bloody Brown Betty set me back a week's wages, and you'll be taking me out for a lovely meal to make up for it. And don't you even think of wearing that suit that you tore up in that scuffle with Cynthia Quillan's brothers behind The Red Lion. It's poorly mended and out of style, and anyway I shall want to walk about with my dashing brother in his RAF uniform.

**XXX**

**Footnotes:** Shovel and pick=the nick=prison. In my story "In the Name of the Father," Freddy Newkirk spent four months in prison for receiving stolen goods in 1924-25. In "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Thief," Freddy Newkirk and his old friend Alfie Burke, aka Alfie the Artiste, ran into one another in Pentonville Prison in September 1943. Alfie gained an early release for the little job he did in the episode "The Safecracker Suite." (s1e27)


	17. Chapter 17: Freddy

May 7, 1944

Dear Peter,

You're probably shocked to hear from me. Well, you're not half as shocked as I am to be writing to you.

I'm not sure why I think you'd be interested in anything I have to say. You already ignored my best piece of advice, which was to stay the hell out of France. But your Mam said she thought you might like to hear from your old man. I doubt she's right, but I do love the old girl, so I'm writing even though I expect you'll toss this letter straight onto the fire.

I'll bet your didn't know that your namesake, my young brother Peter, would have been 50 years old today. He was still 20 when we marched off to war together in December 1914, just weeks after you were born. He was 22 when he got cut down in France. You know the story. I told it often enough at The Ten Bells when I had a few drinks under my belt. I remember you listening with your head tipped to one side like you always did when you were a little lad.

You would have liked your Uncle Pete. He was a right scallywag and made me laugh all the time, except for when I wanted to hit him, which was actually quite often. I think I'm seeing his ghost every time I see you or your brother Arthur. If you didn't have your Mam's eyes, you could be your uncle's double.

This must sound daft to you, coming from a father you've hardly spoken to in 10 years, but I wanted you to know it. It's just an old man's recollection of his departed brother, who'll always be handsome and smiling and in the pink of youth.

Look after yourself over there, son. We've already lost one Peter Newkirk on European soil, and it would be right careless to lose a second one. Your Mam is counting on your safe return, and I told her what Alfie Burke told me, that you're clever and resourceful, and you've probably surrounded yourself with good mates. I've no idea why Alf thinks he knows this, but he seemed quite confident of it, and it calmed your Mam to hear it.

When you do get home, as I hope you will, let's lift a pint together at The Ten Bells and try not to come to blows. Perhaps a toast to two world wars and the years and lives they took from us will settle us down.

And Peter, I realize four years as POW is a long time, but it's a far sight better than 27 years missing on a field in France. It wouldn't matter to you as you'd be dead, but your family—well, they might never get over it. So keep your head about you.

Your father,

Fred Newkirk


	18. Chapter 18: It's That Man Again

May 24, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I've had your letter of April 28 for a few days, but I used my ration of writing paper and all that I could cadge, and there was nothing available for trade. However, LeBeau's mum sent him some, and he was kind enough to lend me a few sheets. Lavender's not the manliest scent, but LeBeau said we're lucky to have what his mum could spare, and I can't argue with that. It certainly gets the job done. I just hope it doesn't make you sneeze.

I'm pleased the old man stopped by and passed a nice afternoon with you, Mam, and the kiddies. But Ducks, I just need to warn you to be careful. I know you've heard those words from me quite a bit lately, but when it comes to Da, I'm dead serious. It's easy to get close to him only to be hurt by him. Once he feels that Mam or anyone has any expectations of him, he is liable to flee and stay away for quite some time. I wish it wasn't so, but it is. I know from your letter that you do understand the risks. I just can't bear the thought that he would make you cry.

He didn't happen to ask after me when you saw him, did he? I doubt he would, but I do wonder if he ever thinks of me at all.

I trust "Robert" will report that I've been a good, church-going lad. Blimey, how did this happen a scoundrel like to me? You have entirely too much influence over both of us.

As for your inquiry about my Lenten sacrifice, let's just say that there are times when you and Mam oughtn't pry. It _was_ a sacrifice, believe me. All I can say is I'm glad Mam taught us that Sundays aren't part of the 40 days of Lent, because "every Sunday is a little Easter." The Guv accused me of looking for "loopholes," but I don't bloody care. If I manage six consecutive days of sacrifice, I think I'm entitled to one day off for bad behavior. In any event, I've never been so relieved by Easter's arrival in all my life.

There have been no significant holidays to celebrate, but the Fourth of July and Bastille Day are just around the corner, and wouldn't my friends think me cross if I sat them out? Remind me to tell you when I'm back home about the concoctions you can brew from sultanas or what the Yanks call "raisins."

Most importantly, the arrival of spring—not to mention a steady stream of letters—has lifted everyone's moods, notably mine. It's hard not feel a surge of hope when the robins are singing on the glistening barbed wire. This is the closest I can come to your sunny optimism.

Brown Betty has been a tremendous hit and has earned you more than one dinner; if you will consent to be my date for one glorious evening, there will be dancing and a show as well. The British prisoners are spread out across the camp, but elevenses is now at my place. Imagine me being mother! But since I'm the one what also manages to obtain the milk, sugar and tea, it just makes sense for me to do all the work, like any mum would do.

With great affection and abiding love from your very sober and less moody brother,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

**Author's Note**: "Elevenses" is the 11 o'clock tea break. I just like the idea of Newkirk surrounding himself with British buddies once in a while. "Being mother" is a wonderful British phrase. Who pours out the tea at home? Mother, of course. So when you say "I'll be mother," you're volunteering to take charge of the teapot, pour tea into cups, add milk as required, hand out the cups, and replenish them. As for Lent, I will leave it to your imagination to decide what sacrifice Corporal Newkirk has made. Perhaps he has given up Shakespeare. The debate over whether Sundays are part of Lent or not was lively and real in my youth.

**H=H=H=H=H**

May 28, 1944

Dear Mavis,

Shortly after I posted my last letter to you, a letter from Da arrived in my hands. I am very short on writing paper, but I cadged some because I had to tell you right away. I'm shaken to the core by this and hardly know how to answer him.

Mind you, it wasn't a bad letter. He mostly wrote to me about Uncle Peter, who was on his mind because he would have turned 50 on May 7. Being the fool that I am, I spent that day lighting matches in Uncle Pete's memory—22 of them in a row to mark each year he lived. Colonel Hogan caught me and thought I'd turned into a pryo, and I had to explain what was going through my feeble brain. He seemed to understand, though I'm sure the incident helped cement his general impression that I'm completely mad.

Da seemed to be saying Mam asked him to write to me. I told her in a letter I was a bit sad that I'd never heard from him in all the time I've been here, so I suppose I brought this on myself. After 10 years, I'm shocked that he can place me. I might ask the Guv to read the letter. I haven't decided. Blimey, I never expected to hear from the old geezer again after what happened last time.

In his letter, Da told me to look after myself and seemed to wish me well. I wonder if he might have some shred of affection for me after all these years. Just thinking about it gives me the collywobbles. I wish it were true, but I don't trust it.

I love you madly and wish I could speak with you right now.

Your devoted brother,

Peter


	19. Chapter 19: Peter Bites the Bullet

June 6, 1944

Dear Da,

Mam was right, and I'm glad to have your letter.

I did know May 7 was Uncle Peter's birthday. Granny always had me to tea near his birthday, seeing as I was named for him. She would tell me bits and bobs about him, like how he stuck in at school to get his leaving certificate and I should too. That didn't work out for me, but it was a nice thought.

I usually light a candle for him but we hadn't any to spare so this year I lit 22 matches in a row, one for each year of his life, and watched them burn down. I scorched my fingers a bit, but I didn't mind. Our Colonel caught me at it and asked a few questions, but he didn't press too hard once he was satisfied I hadn't turned into a pyro.

The Colonel is sitting with me as I write this letter because at first I didn't know how to reply, but he said I ought to. He said I shouldn't ask you difficult questions, as you mightn't know how to respond. But I don't think it's wrong to wonder why you were so hard on me if I reminded you of your favorite brother. Why didn't that make you like me more, not less? I always imagined Uncle Peter would have wanted my company at least a bit. I still wonder what it would have been like if one of you had been there to kick a football about with me or teach me how to knot my tie and shave or buy me my first drink at the pub. It hardly matters now, I suppose. I worked it all out on my own.

As for your advice, I bloody well wish I had listened, or at least stopped at France. Germany is not where I hoped to end up, not that I had much to say about it. But here I am and there's nothing to do but muddle through and hope for the best.

I'm trying to stay safe, and a POW camp is a fair place to do that. We play cards and football, but otherwise life is routine. The rations are awful and the lice are worse, but as long as I have enough fags, I'm all right. There's nothing I want more than to get home to my loved ones. Well, there was one other thing I wanted, and that was a Brown Betty so I could have a decent cup of tea. Thankfully Mavis saw to that. She's a marvelous girl, Da, and you should get to know her before she flits off to America or something mad like that.

Do keep yourself out of trouble, as I don't want Mam worrying about you. She's never stopped, you know. And I'm still thinking about that pint. I won't say no, but you have to admit it ended poorly between us last time.

Your son,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

_**Author's Ridiculously Long Note:**__ You know how sometimes a story takes a turn that even you, the author, weren't expecting? Or does that only happen to me? Well, that's what happened with this story. It took a sharp turn toward the serious as D-Day approached. _

_I started writing this chapter more than a month ago, then decided it was all wrong for this story, and resolved to make it part of a D-Day story that I planned to write (and still might.) But I've been tied up in knots and unable to write for weeks now, so I decided today to just start clearing out some chapters (of this story and another one) that have been lying around. The radical act of publishing this chapter gives me the _illusion _of being an active writer on this site. I think there will have to be a few more chapters in a lighter vein to end this merry romp, but I'm not sure yet. And hopefully life will settle down soon and I'll be able to think and write clearly again. It's all quite overwhelming right now, but I believe things will improve by fall._

_As you read the father-son letters, it might help you a little, though it is certainly not necessary, to know the background I've created for Newkirk in _In the Name of the Father_, which explores the seeds of a very fraught relationship. (Or what we would now call severely dysfunctional.) Also, Newkirk's late uncle, who died in WWI, is borrowed from dust on the wind's superlative _Esk Road: The Rest of the Family_ and has also been mentioned in a couple of my stories._


	20. Chapter 20: Mail Call

(Author's note: This is in response to "Mavis' Missives," chapter 10, by LE Wigman. It's a departure from the letters format because it seemed like the most efficient way to bring Hogan into the scene.)

July 22, 1944

Colonel Hogan was absorbed in a letter from his dad when he heard a rap at the door. "Come in," he said.

It was Newkirk, doing that thing he did with the hem of his shirt when he was anxious. His eyes were down. Hogan suppressed a sigh. He didn't need an off-kilter Newkirk. Especially not tonight. They had work to do.

He'd been pleased to see Newkirk had received three letters in this week's mail, because they'd been warned by London to expect fewer of them in coming months. One of the letters must have held bad news. He put down his dad's letter. This fishing was always good on the Cape this time of year. He missed weekends with dad in that ramshackle beach house, but he'd get there. Maybe next summer.

"Read all three letters already, Newkirk?"

"No, Sir. Just this one. From Mavis."

Mavis. Dear Mavis. He almost felt like he knew her from her letters. He almost felt he was falling in… well, never mind that. That thought could wait.

"Is she all right? Is your family OK?" Hogan knew he'd hear directly from the brass in London if anything dire had happened to one of the Newkirks. He'd insisted on that once the V-1s started falling. But he worried anyway. There were lots of little things that could happen that wouldn't measure up as mission-critical in terms of their impact on one of his key men.

"She's upset with me. For writing to my Da."

Hogan smiled to himself whenever he heard that word from Newkirk. Da. You never heard that in America unless you had tribes of off-the-boat Irish relations, which he did. He heard his mother's Kinsale lilt. He'd never realized it was a Welsh thing too, the way Peter sometimes also let slip a Mam. He'd never realized anything was a Welsh thing, in point of fact, because he'd never met a Welsh person in America. He was looking forward to meeting Newkirk's mother after the war. And Mavis. He had plans with Mavis.

He shook off his thoughts to concentrate on what Newkirk had just said. "You had to write back to him, Peter," he said softly. "It was time. You can face him."

Newkirk didn't open up easily, but he'd been unusually worried about his family ever since that letter from his father had arrived. The bombs that were now raining down on London weren't helping. Loath though he was to admit it, he realized he needed—wanted—guidance. Talking to Colonel Hogan about his messy feelings toward his father was both difficult and a tremendous relief. It was better than stewing, he thought, especially when their mission was more critical than ever. And Hogan knew how to get to him — one "Peter," and he was nattering like Carter.

"Mavis says he came to the house. Spent hours with Mam. Talked and … talked. And bleeding well cried, Sir. He said he never knew he'd hurt us so badly." His voice fell to a whisper. "Hurt me so badly."

"That's good. That means you got through to him."

"But she's angry at me for starting it! And I understand why. I'm over here. I don't have to deal with him. But she's there, and now he wants to talk to her and spend time with her and bleeding well live with Mam again," he said. "But what if he does it again? What if he just hurts them all and walks away again? Who's going to pick up the pieces? She'll be doing it all alone, just her and Mam, without me to lean on because I'm bleeding well over here."

"Maybe he's changed, Peter." The first name again. Newkirk noticed, and it settled him a bit. It was like a hug, only without touching.

"People don't change that much."

"Oh, I don't know. You've changed."

Newkirk finally looked up at Hogan. Yes, he had changed. Hogan and LeBeau and Kinch and Carter and His Majesty the King and The Prime Minister had all seen to that. He knew he was a better person today than the scrapper who went into the RAF in 1939.

"I suppose I have, Sir, but I had a lot of help," Newkirk replied.

"The job of a family is to help each other. That includes helping your father. Mavis can understand that. Let's look at the letter. We can figure this out."


	21. Chapter 21: Assurances

(The memory Newkirk recounts is the closing scene of "In the Name of the Father." He also foreshadows some things that will happen in the sequel, tentatively titled "His Father's Son," which I expect to start publishing in October.)

It was late evening, hours after his conversation with Colonel Hogan, when Newkirk finally sat down to respond to Mavis. After supper, he cast a look at the Colonel, who nodded knowingly. They'd agreed earlier than Newkirk could pop into the Colonel's quarters for some privacy to write what he felt would be a difficult letter. He scrounged up his pencil and notepaper and slipped away while the rest of the men were drying dishes or settling down to games of checkers and chess. He took a seat at the table and hoped the words would flow.

**H=H=H=H=H**

July 22, 1944

Dear Mavis,

I know it must be hard to have the old man back in your life, and I wish I was there to face this with you. I'd hold you tight and then swing you around the way I did when you were little to make you laugh. Then we could talk with him together.

You and me, we're the oldest and we have to be strong for the rest of the kids, especially the little ones who hardly know Da at all. I can't imagine the three little 'uns have any idea about him. The twins might be just old enough enough to remember when he actually tried to be a husband, if not a father.

I told him he should get to know you, and I won't apologize for that, Mave. He'd be blessed to have a girl as kind and sensible and brave as you in his life. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't think you could handle it. And I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't a little bit scared that you're going to slip off to America and leave a hole in my heart. Even though I'd never prevent you from fulfilling what's in your own heart, ducks. I just miss you so much and the thought of getting you back only to lose you again, well I don't care for that very much. Blimey, now my writing paper's wet and the bloody pencil won't work on that spot. Are you happy?

I'm not making sense. What's my fear of losing you got to do with Da? Well, I wonder if he feels that way every day. About all of us. About his brother. To love someone so fiercely and then lose them or even just be separated from them is the hardest thing in life. Sometimes I wonder if he loved us at all. But I think he did, and does. He has to. He just has to.

I remember the day he came back from Pentonville for the first time. I think I was 10, so you'd have been 5. We were on our way to Grandda's funeral when he and Uncle Jamie walked through the door. I stood there looking at him, trying to decide if I could trust him, if I wanted to chance it. The shame of having him go away was so awful, and I didn't want to let him hurt me again.

But I couldn't stop myself. I thought about the times he'd smiled at me, looking proud of me, and the times he made Mam laugh. And I saw him holding you and Kathleen and Gwennie and I saw how you all just looked up to him like three little angels. I was aching for Grandda and sad that Da hadn't seen him before he died, and Mam was so relieved to see him that she was crying. And before I knew it, I was hurling myself into his arms and crying like a girl. For once he didn't tell me to be a man. He just let me cry and he held me. I think that was love. I was close to him for months after that until… well, you know that story.

Mam taught us to say how much we love one another. It's not very British or stiff-upper-lip of us, but I'm grateful we do it, because it means I can always tell you exactly how I feel. And Mam. And the rest of the kids. Even Harry. I expect he's somewhere on the continent by now, and I'm proud of him even though I'm scared. I suspect he's grown up a bit in the last few months.

I can't tell you exactly what to do, Mavis, except open your heart to him and listen. Yes, I know that I've warned you against getting close, but I think it's time we both gave the old man a chance. And if he hurts you in any way, rest assured that your big brother will be along soon to sort him out, and I'll have friends with me to help. But I hope it won't come to that.

Your brother who loves you and believes in you,

Peter

**H=H=H=H=H**

He signed his name and put down his pencil just as the Colonel came back into the room. He looked over his shoulder toward the door.

"Finished, Guv. Would you mind having a look at it for me before I seal the envelope?"

Hogan clapped a hand across Newkirk's shoulders and took the letter. "Of course," he said. "I'll take a look."

Hogan read silently for several minutes, peering up at Newkirk when he got to the blot on the paper. He gave him an understanding smile. Under all that toughness, Newkirk was a softy, especially when it came to his family.

He finished reading, then laid the paper down. "It's perfect. It's honest and heartfelt, Newkirk. You couldn't have done any better than this. She'll be very touched."

"It's a bit personal," Newkirk muttered. "Perhaps I shouldn't have asked you..."

"I'm glad you asked. I, um, didn't know that about your father going to Pentonville when you were a kid. I knew he'd been there recently, but I had no idea..."

"It was horrible. Embarrassing. Mam had another baby on the way, and we had nothing. My Grandda was dying, so my Granny couldn't help. If it wasn't for Alfie and Vera and the Levine family, we'd have never managed. My sisters and me, we'd have ended up in the Waifs and Strays Society."

"Alfie Burke?"

"Yes, Sir."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully. He'd always suspected the old safecracker was more important to Newkirk than he let on.

There was something else in the letter Hogan couldn't let slip by — the naked fear of loss. "Newkirk, where exactly is it you think Mavis is going after the war?"

Newkirk could feel himself flushing. "She seems quite fond of Americans. Certain Americans," he said. "Oh, bloody hell, do I have to spell it out? You, Sir. I'm afraid you're going to marry my sister, that's what."

Hogan smiled. "I have started to care a lot about her, Newkirk. But we need to get to know each other in person. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"You'll like her even more in person," Newkirk replied. "I know you both too well to have any doubt. You'd better be good to her, Sir. I hear you're taking her flying."

Now it was Hogan's turn to blush. "You'd like America,Newkirk," he murmured. "I'll show you around myself."

Newkirk hung his head. "I'm sure you would, Sir. But I'd never manage the cost of booking passage without stealing it, which I'm not likely to do any longer. You Americans earn a lot of money, Guv. Wages are different for RAF men. Anyway, someone has to stay behind and look after Mam and the little ones. Look, Sir," he said, brightening up, "There's nothing to fret about. As long as Mavis is happy, I'll be chuffed for her. You'd be bloody lucky if she settled for you, Guv," he added with a cheeky grin.

"Get out of here," Hogan said, swiping at Newkirk's arm. "Mail your letter."

"POST your letter, Sir. If you're going to sweep a British girl off her feet, at least learn the language." He strode to the door, a bit of his old cockiness returning.

"And Sir?" Newkirk asked as he reached the door.

"What is it, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"Thank you for helping me figure out what to say. About the old man, i mean. We've got to give him a chance to show us he can be a better person, don't we? Everyone deserves a chance to redeem himself."

Words failed as Hogan just nodded. "Yes," he finally said. "Yes, everyone deserves that chance. Good night, Peter."

"Good night, Guv."


	22. Chapter 22: Dear Maggie

(This and the previous two chapters are in response to Chapter 10 of Mavis' Missives by L.E. Wigman)

July 22, 1944

Dear Margaret,

I'm using your proper name because this is a formal letter of notice from your big brother.

1\. You are not to get on any submarines.

2\. You are not to march into Berlin. There are rules of civilized warfare that we obey because we are British, and even though the Germans deserve it, they are not ready for Hurricane Maggie.

3\. Be good and look after Mam and Mavis and the little 'uns.

Now that we've got that out of the way, I've got a secret for you. I know I can confide in you because everyone says you are just like me. That means you will understand the importance of what I have to say.

I understand Da is back home. He might stay or he might leave again, but there is something I need you to do. Sit and talk with him for just 15 minutes. Don't fight or argue or try to get a sixpence from him. Just tell him about what it's like being Margaret Rose Newkirk.

I think you're 13 now, aren't you? When I was 13, I had a holy row with Da that went on for two years and ended with me leaving the house to make my own way in the world. The secret is that I might have acted like I wanted that. But inside my heart was breaking. I missed Mam and I missed my brothers and sisters and wasn't even there when some of you were born. And I missed Da, even though I couldn't say it at the time. I slept in damp fields and on rough sidewalks until Vera Burke realized what was happening and took me in.

When you're 13, you think you are practically grown up, but you still need your family. Even at my age, which is nearly 30, you need your family. With Da coming back, even if he doesn't stay, which I have to honestly say he might not do, you get a chance to know him. Don't blow it, Maggie.

And stay off submarines.

Your big brother who loves you madly,

Peter


	23. Chapter 23: Scarpered Off

August 28, 1944

Dear Peter,

Well, I gave him a chance, and guess what? The bugger scarpered off again.

He was at home with Mam for six weeks, which I suppose was a modern record. The last time he was home for more than a week was 10 years ago. You were off on your own by then and probably wouldn't recall, but I do, because that's how we ended up getting a baby brother for Christmas. Pete, they were laughing and carrying on like they were kids again. At the rate they were going, I was afraid we'd have another little Newkirk on our hands by spring.

Blimey, Peter, I could finally see why she fell in love with him. He can be quite charming when he's sober, and he's got that dazzling smile that just takes you right in and makes you want to believe he'll take you on a grand adventure. He had the little ones mesmerized with the idea that he'd take Mam and them to Wales before the summer's out.

It's hard to believe it, but the three smallest ones have never even been to see where Mam grew up. The kiddies only met Nain and Taid once when they were all evacuated to Shropshire, and that was nearly five years ago. Imagine the two of them, nearly 80 and riding on that rattling wreck of a train from Aberystwyth to Borth and Dovey Junction and Machynlleth before finally reaching Shrewsbury. It makes my teeth ache just to think about it.

Unfortunately, Da held on just long enough to crush their dreams. He left two nights ago after a huge row with Mam about his latest venture, some business he's got out in the countryside with Ernie Walker. I'm not sure of all the details, but I do know we're the only family in the street having eggs for breakfast on Sundays.

Sometimes I don't know why we bother. I hope things aren't too awful for you and that we'll be together soon.

Love,

Mavis

* * *

August 31, 1944

Dear Peter,

You've probably just read my last letter. Just shred it, all right? The old man was back in five days with pockets of money and railway tickets for Mam, the twins and the little ones. God only knows how he wrangled those—I imagine he must have invented a dire emergency with Nain and Taid on their deathbeds or some such rubbish. In any event, instead of packing them off to Kent to pick hops for two weeks before school starts like he used to do, he's sending the lot of them out to Aber for a visit. Mam cried, I don't mind telling you. I do so wish I could go with them, but the Ministry won't let me off work for that long.

Is it possible he's reformed himself?

Love,

Mavis

* * *

**NOTES:** I've been on that particular train route about 10 times, and it DOES make my teeth rattle just to think of it. Nain and Taid is Welsh for Grandma and Grandpa. Ernie Walker, an all-round scoundrel who has no doubt made a nice living in the black market, first appeared in my story "In the Name of the Father," chapter 7.


	24. Chapter 24: Whinge, Whinge, Whinge

_A quick update in response to an urgent request from NoblesseSeria_

**September 22, 1944**

Dear Mavis,

Sorry I haven't written recently. I'm getting over rather a nasty cold. I was holed up in Colonel Hogan's quarters for three days trying to keep my germs to myself. LeBeau tells me I owe my recovery to his chicken soup, which apparently I greatly enjoyed*****, although I have no recollection of this whatsoever. The Colonel tells me I had a raging fever, so perhaps that explains why I can't recall a bleeding thing about being ill.

And no, Ducks, I don't suppose we can say Da's reformed himself if he's up to what I think he's up to in his little business venture with Ernie. But it does sound like he's trying to reclaim Mam's affections, and perhaps even get to know the little ones. I won't complain about that as long as he doesn't corrupt them the way he … well, you know, and I'd rather not spell it out.

Speaking of Da, I sent the old man a letter on June 6. Do you happen to know if he got it? Do you suppose he'll write back to me? I shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't and I don't suppose I care one way or another. But he bleeding well started the correspondence, and a reply would seem only courteous.

Please tell Mam that next time she writes I shall want all the details on her visit to Wales. I do hope Maggie and Lily caused minimal chaos, though I don't have very high hopes. I also hope Auntie Gwynedd is laying off the rum, and don't you dare tell Mam I said so. Any chance of a getting a photograph of Mam and all of the kiddies with Nain and Taid?

We're all holding on here. Our Red Cross packages aren't coming as regularly, so we're a bit hungrier and crankier than usual. My reserves of fags are running very low, but I do still have some of the tea you sent, so that's a mercy.

Bits of news are trickling into the camps. We heard from the guards last month about the liberation of Paris. The guards are all looking rather glum, as one tends to do when the noose tightens. You know I'm not given to bouts of sunny optimism, but it would be awfully nice to come home by Christmas. Of course, I've wished for that for years, and look where it's got me. This year will make five bleeding Christmases in this pit.

I don't suppose you've spoken to Rita lately, have you? If you do, please give her my very best. I miss her letters, but nearly five years is a long time to wait around for a bloke, especially with all those rich Americans crawling about who've never seen a gorgeous peaches and cream complexion in all their lives.

Look after yourself, and Mam and the children as well.

Your sad and sickly brother who could really use a few more letters from home, not to mention fags,

Peter

*****_Oh good lord, Newkirk's health was completely fine, but in "__How to Catch a Papa Bear," season 4, episode 3, he did have to fake an illness. According to the series timeline painstakingly created for the Fandom wikia by someone with a lot of time on his hands, that episode took place September 18-21, 1944, putting Newkirk in Nazi captivity for two or three nights._

* * *

**October 10, 1944**

Dear Peter,

Blimey, would you stop beating about the bush and tell me what you want? Yes, I'll ask Da and Rita and Mam to write to you.

Da was over the moon to get your letter and has been waving it about down the pub. And hang about before you ask why he's still drinking. He goes to the pub only on Saturday nights, as he's out in the country with Ernie doing his work on weekdays. He's not getting plastered the way he used to do, probably because Uncle Arthur usually goes with him and also because it's just not done these days. You know Uncle Arthur, sipping at his shandy—he's sober enough to ensure Da paces himself and doesn't ogle the barmaids.

As for why Da hasn't written to you, I think he's just not sure what to say to you next. It's a bit of a chess match between the two of you, isn't it? I know you're aching about this, no matter how tough you try to sound. Give the old man time to pull his thoughts together. I'm sure he has more to say to you, perhaps even some things you'd like to hear. I'll speak with him.

And my goodness, Peter. I'm quite certain Rita has not taken up with another bloke. She's working in a shipping office in the dockyards and they're keeping her terribly busy. I can't say I understand it, but she's still potty for you and I know for a fact that she writes to you every week. Perhaps the post has slowed down on its way through Switzerland. Rita and I are meeting up on Friday after work to go to the pictures, so I'll have a word with her then. There's a new American musical film called "Going My Way" that everyone is terribly excited about. I'll pass along your charming compliment without making it sound quite as backhanded as you did. See, I'm still good at mopping up after you, Pete.

Mam wrote you a very detailed letter from Wales, which I expect you'll receive soon. It turns out you were right about Auntie Gwynedd, you blighter. I'll give Mam the pleasure of filling you in on all the details.

Please take care of yourself, Peter, and give my warmest regards to Robert and the rest of your mates. And look out for a shipment of woolens to get you and your chaps through the winter, even though I hope to heaven you'll be home before the first snow.

With love from your sister who adores you even when you whinge,

Mavis

PS, If you've got such an awful cold, you might want to cut down on smoking.


	25. Chapter 25: A Pile of Letters

**December 8, 1944**

Throughout the autumn, mail call had been a sorry affair. The post was frustratingly slow, and for all the right reasons, Newkirk supposed. War was raging on the borders of Germany and inching inland. Roads and bridges were already dilapidated from Allied air attacks. Now transport across Europe was severely compromised as tanks tracks tore up roads and battles raged in towns and villages. The Americans seemed to be getting a trickle of correspondence, but somehow letters from England had dried up. The British prisoners were alternately despairing and hardy. It couldn't be that they'd been forgotten—it was a just a problem with the routes, they convinced one another.

Still, they were all miserable at having their lifeline to home cut off. During mid-November, Newkirk had turned 30 without receiving the customary flurry of letters from his large family. He tried his best to hide it, but he was crushed. His mates walked on eggshells for days afterwards.

But God bless the Red Cross. One day, after two solid months of nothing, a huge backlog of letters arrived in Luft Stalag 13, postmarked London. An astounding eight of them had Newkirk's name on them, and he wasn't even the big prize-winner. But he was happy. There were two from Mavis. One from his mother. THREE from Rita. One from the kiddies. And one, oh my God, one from the old man.

Where to start? Rita's letters, slightly fragrant and addressed in a delightfully delicate hand, were calling to him. He couldn't open those first, because he'd have to inhale them and then savor them, and he absolutely couldn't carry on like a lovesick puppy when everyone else was sitting about the barracks watching him read.

The kids' letter? That would be entertaining and should be opened at the right moment, when everyone needed a good laugh. His father's letter? He'd need to creep off somewhere private for that one in case it gave him an overwhelming urge to punch something. Perhaps he could prevail on Colonel Hogan to screen it for him.

That left Mum and Mavis. And even Mavis would have agreed that Mum came first in Peter's heart. She always had, though it was an awfully close call.

Mum's letter was postmarked Aberystwyth and when he slid it out of the envelope, a sprinkle of sand dusted the table. How that got through the censors was anyone's guess, Newkirk thought with a grin. Somewhere in the military bureaucracy of the Third Reich, a bit of the Cardigan Bay was scattered on a pen-pusher's desk—or a blade-wielder's blotter, to be more precise.

But there was more. Not one, but two photographs were stuck in the envelope, accidentally glued in by the aforementioned bureaucrat. Newkirk, equal parts astonished and anxious, clawed one loose.

"Hey, you got a picture?" Carter said with a big grin. Newkirk didn't even hear him. He was too busy staring.

The five youngest Newkirks, looking wind-tossed and carefree in loose summer togs, were lined up with big smiles and bare feet, with the bay in glorious view behind them. My lord, they were tall and gangly now. "Fourteen, fourteen, twelve, ten, nine," he told himself as he counted down from tallest to smallest. No, they'd be older now, he remembered. A few birthdays had passed since late summer, when the photo was taken on their trip to Wales, and his youngest brother would be ten this month.

He heard himself exhaling louder than he'd intended to, but he couldn't help it. The years hadn't been stolen; they'd been erased. His heart throbbed even as he smiled at the sight of them all looking so healthy and happy.

"Who are the kids, your brothers and sisters?" Carter said.

"Well, who else would they be, Carter, the Goebbels?" Newkirk replied, finding a secure hiding spot behind his sarcasm. If he sounded strained, it wasn't because he was choked up; it was because Carter asked the stupidest questions. He handed the photo over and remained deliberately nonchalant, rattling off their names too fast for Carter to catch them.

"They're cute kids. Are you sure you're related?" That was Hogan, creeping up from behind and taking the picture from Carter.

"You'd have to ask the old man about that," Newkirk grumbled back. "Sir," he added as an insurance policy. He was mildly annoyed at Hogan's evident interest as he took the photo to examine closer to the light. For a Yank officer, he already knew too bloody much about the Newkirk family.

"Where are they in this picture?" Hogan inquired. "It looks like Cape Cod."

"Aberystwyth, in _Cymru_. _ Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau_**,**" Newkirk replied. "On the _Bae Ceredigion_," he said in measured Welsh tones, enjoying the fact that Hogan had no idea what he was saying, and neither did anyone else. They looked baffled; he took pity and simplified his explanation. "They're in Wales. The old man sent them there to visit me mum's family."

Idly, he drew the other photo from the envelope. This time he had to bite back a whimper before it could escape and embarrass him. It was _Nain_ and _Taid_ with Mum, and somehow Maggie had slipped into the foreground, that scamp. They were how old now? Seventy-five? Eighty? Newkirk wasn't sure, but when he looked at his grandparents, he saw them 20 years younger. He saw the grandfather who taught him to fish for lobsters from a coracle and took him on the steam train to Devil's Bridge. He saw the grandmother who stuffed him with _cawl_ and cream buns and lulled him to sleep with stories of _Cantre'r Gwaelod_, the country under the sea.

"That's what you're going to look like when you're old, Newkirk," Carter said, peering at the elderly man. "You have the same eyes. Your grandparents, huh? And your mom… and one of the kids?"

"Maggie. A holy terror," Newkirk said with obvious pride. "Bloody good thing she's got our mum to keep her in line."

"Oh, yeah? How'd that work out for you?" Hogan joked. Newkirk felt annoyed. It had worked out just fine, actually.

"My occasional…" he searched for the word… "transgressions had nothing to do with my mum," he said flatly. "She never let us get away with anything, and still doesn't." He softened a little. "You'll see, Sir," he said.

"I would like to meet her. Soon, I hope," Hogan said with a squeeze to Newkirk's shoulder. He sensed he'd ribbed Newkirk just a bit too much. All that mail, all at once was probably a bit overwhelming. He'd take his emotional temperature later in private, and he'd have to check in with the other British prisoners to see how they were doing.

Carter was back with a question. "So that's Wales, huh? It sure looks like a pretty place. But boy, you have a big family. Where do you put up that many people?" Carter asked.

"Oh, that's not hard. My grandparents have a big tumble-down terrace house on the seafront. Lots of rooms to cram the kiddies into. My mum grew up there with all her brothers and sisters. We used to spend the summers there with all the cousins running in and out…"

He sighed. He didn't really want to talk about this. Reminiscing was too harsh a reminder of time's swift passage. The truth was, _Nain_ and _Taid_ looked too frail and small, and everyone else looked entirely too big. Mum, at least, was just the same – serene and beautiful. But even if he got home soon, would he be able to see his grandparents? He was glad his mum had made the journey, and was grateful that his scoundrel of a father had pulled strings and broken rules to arrange it. But would he ever see them again? Was this picture his last look?

He tucked the letter from his mother into his breast pocket, then gathered up his remaining letters and stuffed them under his blanket. "Nobody better touch those," he said irritably as he shrugged on his greatcoat and lit up a cigarette. "Carter, I'm warning you, guard them or I'll bash you." He collected the two photos from the table and tucked them into his pocket with the letter, then made his way to the door.

"Where you going?" Carter asked.

"Out," Newkirk replied. He'd explained enough for one day.

* * *

_Sorry this one isn't a letter, but it's a set up for a series of them, which will get us nearly to the end of this yarn._ Cymru _is Wales_. Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau _means "Old Land of my Fathers," which is also the title of the Welsh national anthem. __ Instead of _Bae Ceredigion_, Newkirk could have easily said Cardigan Bay, but he was feeling oppositional._


End file.
